The Tao of Incubus

walking the path of a wandering band

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Eighteenth Step: Whipped Cream Adventures

Hello, kids.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Well, I suppose it hasn’t been that long since my last post but it has perhaps been that long since my last little story. So I figured I’d share one tonight, albeit one that is over a year old. It ages well. Like fine wine, or stinky cheese.

This happened in Santa Barbara in 2011, which consequently was the first big venue concert I attended since working for the band, making it in and of itself a sort of surreal and strange experience. Not to let up on the surreality at all, my concert buddy for the event that night was a very kind friend of mine who had traveled all the way up from Argentina to go to some Incubus concerts (and whom is an enormous fan of Mike). We spent a lot of time waiting at Will Call where the people most assuredly did not believe that we were ‘on the list’ before a coworker of mine came blazing into the parking lot in a white van, threw open the side sliding door and started screaming at us to get in the van, get in the van!! while the van was practically still moving like it was some kind of Bourne movie. Suffice to say against all better judgement we more or less dive-bombed into the van and thus received our tickets (and me my laminate).

The van dumped us out backstage, which was up an enormous hill (I was grateful for the van), straight into the food area. There we sat waiting for showtime and my boss came by to sit with us and chat for a while.

At some point during the evening my friend was trying to explain to Ren that (evidently, I do not speak Spanish myself so I apologize if I am relating this story incorrectly), the “ll” diphthong that makes a sort of ‘ee’ or ‘oi’ noise in the dialect of Spanish I’m accustomed to actually makes a sort of ‘shh’ sound in Argentinian Spanish. Thus, ‘pollo’, was not pronounced ‘poy-yo’ but ‘poh-sho’. This of course is a discourse on Spanish that she is giving to me and Ren while Mr. Pasillas is coming out from the dressing rooms to have dinner, so Ren waves Jose over so that my friend can describe to him how his last name would be pronounced in Argentina. My friend is somewhat (alright, completely) mortified by the experience.

Jose, on the other hand, seems to think this is hilarious. He asks her if his first name would be pronounces ‘show-se’ (to go with pa-she-shas, as rhymes with facetious), and she tells him no, but that doesn’t stop Jose. He wanders off to other areas of the meal room muttering ‘Showse Pasheshas’ to himself in a very pleased tone of voice. A few minutes later we all decide we are hungry and Ren gets us tickets to go through the meal line.

As it so happens I end up in line right in front of Jose. Largely I manage to do this without freaking the fuck out, possibly because at that point I’d worked the HQ site and being in the general vicinity of Incubus wasn’t as overwhelming as it once was as long as I didn’t have to actually draw attention to myself and risk looking like an idiot. Which is of course what I did next, naturally. As we got to the end of the buffet line there was the dessert table, which had a lot of cakes and things on it but also a lot of freshly cut fruit and an enormous bigger-than-my-head-by-a-factor-of-ten bowl of whipped cream. Given I share poor Mr. Boyd’s problems with dairy (goddamn you to hell, lactose intolerance, I just wanted one pumpkin spice latte this year…) it was of great concern to me to know whether or not this was real whipped cream.

So without really thinking about it, I sort of leaned over to Jose and asked, “Do you think that’s real whipped cream?”

He thought about it for a while, to his credit. He looked at the bowl, and at me, and at the bowl again. And then he reached out with his bare hand and took an enormous handful of whipped cream and stuffed it directly into his mouth. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he then immediately began to let it dribble out of his mouth, so that the whipped cream quickly melted and became a runny, sticky wet white mess running down his chin and neck and…I’m sure we’re all adults here and we can extrapolate for ourselves the visual here. As he was doing this, Jose also treated me to a host of ‘mmmmmmmmm’ and ‘delicious’ sounds and repeated in a low voice (which I presume he also thought was sultry?) “I’d eat it. Oh, I would, I’d eat it. Lauren, I’d eat it all up. I’d eat it. I would.”

For a few moments it was like time stopped. I was painfully aware of the whipped cream running down the face of this man who drummed for my very favorite band in the world and I was painfully aware that if I looked just past him I could see Ren, Ben and Chris (seated with my friend, where I was planning to return to sit) as well as Brandon and most of the crew all stopped, watching this interaction like they were waiting for some kind of shoe to drop. Like it was some kind of test.

Well there was really only one thing to do about that.

I told Jose in a very cavalier, nonchalant voice as if he didn’t have whipped cream running down his face, “Well, if it’s good enough for Showse Pasheshas it’s good enough for me.” And I grabbed a handful and stuffed it in my own mouth and then turned to walk back to where I’d been sitting like I owned the whole damn room.

I figure his uproarious laughter after that was a good sign.

Filed under incubus steps on the tao jose pasillas ben kenney brandon boyd chris kilmore sir not appearing in this story mike einziger

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Anonymous asked: So did Mikey get voted the best guitar player???

We don’t know yet! The poll is closed but KROQ hasn’t released the results yet. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed and think good thoughts in Mikey’s direction!